Weed on High

Weed on High

You’d think that telling chicks you write music for movies and live in a terrace in Darlinghurst would be a winner. It’s when they find out more that everything turns to custard.

Yeah, I really do write music for movies. Soft porn, since you ask. You know, girls lying on the bonnet of a Ferrari and slooooowly taking their kit off, licking their lips, then their fingers, and putting those fingers places where the camera goes on full zoom to follow. Nothing violent, sometimes a couple of lezzies, sometimes a girl with a guy, often a girl on her own.

This bloke in America makes the movies and pays me to do the music. Every time some horny bugger with his tongue hanging out downloads one of the movies it’s royalties for me too. It’s a nice little earner that bulks up the money I make being a sparky. Until the bloody ATO discovers me Paypal account.

Women I date don’t like it that I have to watch the porn to write the music but I can’t write without seeing what I’m writing for, can I?

When I was a kid I wanted to be a rock star. The only sensible thing Dad ever done for me was force me to become an apprentice electrician instead. Get a trade first, he said, so’s if the music shit doesn’t work out you got a day job. It didn’t work out but a few years back I taught myself how to compose music on a synth and computer, doof doof stuff that sells well on the internet for those dance and rave places where nobody gives a shit about the music but wants the beat.

One contact led to another and for the last year it’s been the porn music, regular stuff, one soundtrack every two or three weeks.  Bland sort of music, and I bet nobody notices if one soundtrack isn’t very different to another when they’re watching the action. I wonder if most of the blokes who watch this stuff notice the music at all really. Continue reading



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Confessions of a rubbish typist

I name my story characters very carefully. Their names have to suit their personalities. If I am writing something set in the past, they should be appropriate for the era. And for me personally, they have to be appropriate for my typing inaccuracies.

You see, despite training as a touch typist far too many years ago, I am a rubbish typist. Fast, but inaccurate. Eighty something words a minute, but a percentage of them are indecipherable if I’m going at top speed.

So I naturally incline away from names with the letter Z in them, as it’s one of the letters I’m least accurate at hitting. Half my Zs end up on the screen as Xs or As.

I like the name Zoe and nothing would give me more writing pleasure than to name one of my characters Zoe. I suspect I’d get tired of correcting Xoe and Aoe to Zoe after a bit, however.

I do have a story, yet to load on this website, featuring a major character called Lizzie. Her name required an amount of reworking as the story progressed, but I was so engrossed in writing it I finally surrendered to getting the story written and fixing the typos afterwards. I do prefer to fix typos as I write; knowing those little typos are there sits at the back of my mind, frustrating me.

X is another letter I’m not great with. One of my stories from a few years back had a protagonist called Alix (or Alid or Aliz or Alis, depending on how quickly I was typing at the time). Any name with an X will, in future, be given to a minor character.

Am I alone in choosing character names which use more common letters, simply because it’s easier to type them?


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Farewell my local bookshop

When we first moved into our house here seven years ago, I was delighted to find that our local, unprepossessing shopping centre was the home of that veritable treasure: the independent bookshop.

Richard stocks a diverse range of books and is happy to order in for his customers. In fact, he keeps a database of those of us who eagerly hoover up each new release by particular authors. Bless him, he phones me when these books come in and tells me he’s putting aside a copy for me.

This is personalised service by someone who loves books and loves to talk about books.

Last year Richard opened a second shop, fifteen minutes’ drive away, vowing at the time he would keep his original bookshop open.

And until now, he kept to his word. I was saddened to hear last month that he is closing the shop near us at the end of this month. Saddened but not surprised, really, as his new shop is in a slightly better socio-economic area which augers well for sales.

I visited my bookshop today. All books are 25% off and he is even selling the handsome wooden bookshelves they are displayed on. Every bookshelf has a sold sticker on it. Half the bookshelves are empty already.

Unfortunately I couldn’t find any fiction to buy as I had the latest by my favourites and didn’t see any authors I’d like to start exploring. I did, however, buy Rachel Khoo’s The Little Paris Kitchen. It must be kismet; I’ve been looking for that book in Richard’s shop for months, dithering about whether to order it in as modern cookbooks, with their pages of photos and funky layouts, are quite expensive. Until today it hadn’t been in stock. Now it’s mine at 25% off and my mouth was watering as I flicked through it over lunch.

Come 1 November, however, I will have to look for my book fix elsewhere. I can drive to the nearest Dymocks or Angus & Robertson – I forget which, they are quite interchangeable – at the bigger shopping centre 7 minutes’ drive away, or go that bit further and pay Richard a call at his new shop. I’ve been buying books on eBay for years so that won’t change, and increasingly I am buying Kindle versions as they are cheaper and we are running out of bookshelf space and space to put new bookshelves.

The nice thing about my local shop – particularly nice for Richard – is that I was prone to impulse buy, simply because the shop was there and I was going to the shopping centre anyway to buy groceries.

I know Richard will still keep my name on his database and call me when something I like comes in, so he may pick up an impulse buy or two when I go to pick it up. But it won’t be the same… it’s been such a pleasure, and these days a luxury, to have a bookshop only five minutes’ walk from home.

It’s increasingly hard for independent booksellers to compete against the big chains of bookstores, and online buying. I should be grateful that Richard didn’t shut his local doors earlier, and hope that his new bookshop can not just survive, but thrive.

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Book review: Bittersweet by Colleen McCullough

bittersweetWhat an apt title for this book. Bittersweet. It explains how I’m feeling right now, having just read the final chapter on my Kindle app. I love some of Colleen McCullough’s previous novels. I adored The Thorn Birds. And Tim. And the slightly whimsical The Ladies of Missalonghi. But I didn’t adore Bittersweet.

I may be the only reviewer who says this, and it’s probably un-Australian of me to say so, but I just don’t think it’s as well written as McCullough’s earlier novels. Characters have immense changes of mind and tenets without any prior inkling – unless the Kindle version was missing a vital piece or two.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. The book is the story of four sisters – two sets of twins, Edda and Grace, Kitty and Tufts (Heather) by the same father and different mothers – and the story takes place during the 1920s into the Depression in the 1930s, set mainly in the fictional NSW town of Corunda. Their father, a lovely bloke, is a Reverend at the local church but to avoid their overbearing mother/stepmother and gain some independence the four girls become live-in student nurses at the local hospital.

All good so far. McCullough’s done her research, and the 1920s setting is pretty authentic, down to the duties and treatments the young nurses deal with and the clothing they wear. We learn more about their characters, and their characters develop now they are living out of home in a nurses’ house at the local hospital.

The twins are polar opposites: Edda is strong and intelligent, Grace is weaker. Kitty is the glamour girl, Tufts the practical.

It’s no real surprise that Grace, who doesn’t like the dirtier duties of nursing, marries quickly, but I was rather stunned to read her accepting a proposal of marriage from a man at their first meeting. Yeah, OK, there’s love at first sight but this stretched even my romantic belief.

Kitty is pursued by a wealthy man and finally her scorn turns to love. She marries him, but two miscarriages don’t make up for the big house on the hill and her husband’s interest in politics. He’s a possessive chappy, too, and resents the time she spends with her sisters.

After having an illicit relationship with a local, Edda marries a titled man in a deal that will see her attain a medical degree in return for protecting his homosexuality. It’s actually a better deal than it sounds.

Tufts’ love is the hospital; her relationships with men are fraternal, and she becomes more successful in her career as the book progresses.

Things don’t go well for Grace when the depression hits and her husband loses his job. She’s living in the poorer part of town and won’t accept charity from the wealthy husbands her sisters have acquired. She’s determined to stay there and send her two sons to a local school. But wait! Out of the blue she does a 180 and decides she wants to live in a posh part of Sydney and send them to a private school, and asks Kitty’s husband to help her. That’s the change of character thing I’m talking about.

There are bursts of lovely humour through the book; at times the writing is lyrical and evocative. At others though, it’s a bit rushed, staccato; almost as if two people were writing it, not just one.

Plot and style bunnies aside, this is a story of sisterly love and strength; and ambition. These are strong women who are in many senses ahead of their time. Given the setting, the four protagonists and the author, I should have loved this one.

But I just couldn’t enjoy it the way I’ve enjoyed McCullough’s earlier books. I reached the final page and was looking for the next chapter, or at least a really memorable closing paragraph. Bittersweet, indeed.


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Book review: The Chaperone by Laura Moriarty

The ChaperonsFictionalised lives of famous people can be hit or miss. Paula McLain’s The Paris Wife (about Ernest Hemingway’s first wife, Hadley), was well-researched and believable. I enjoyed it immensely, being rather a sucker for fiction set in Paris in the 1920s!

When I saw the cover of The Chaperone, with the unmistakable and gorgeous 3/4 profile of Louise Brooks on the cover, I grabbed it with both hands and eagerly turned to the back cover to read the publisher’s blurb. Disclaimer: I love Louise Brooks. For those of you who don’t know her, she was the most beautiful and talented film star in the 1920s, too intelligent to be entrapped in the studio system; too intelligent for her own good. Louise grabbed obscurity from the jaws of stardom more than once, but when her star shone it shone with incandescence. Nobody looked as good on screen. Nobody moved as naturally, acted with such subtleness, and said so much with her eyes. She was the queen of the silents. If you want to know more, search for her on YouTube.

The Chaperone is based on a fact: when she was fifteen, Louise Brooks travelled from Witchita, Kansas, to New York City to spend the summer at the Denishawn Dance School. Her ambition was to be a dancer, and she had caught the eye of the Denishawn team, who ran arguably America’s best modern dance school. Were she successful at the summer school, she would become one of the troupe, who travelled across the USA performing modern dance.

At fifteen Louise had to be chaperoned – never mind that she was way older than her years mentally and could run intellectual rings around people twice her age. In real life her chaperone was Alice Mills, described by Louise as ‘a stocky, bespectacled housewife of thirty-six’ according to Barry Paris’ excellent biography of Louise. In The Chaperone, Louise is accompanied to New York by Cora Carlisle, also stocky, also thirty-six, but fictional. The first three quarters of this book covers the pair’s time together in New York City, drawing upon fact whenever possible when it comes to Louise’s behaviour, believably fictionalising events and conversations.

Love Louise Brooks as I do, she is not the most likeable character in this book. I suspect she wasn’t in real life either, particularly as a young, haughty, occasionally obnoxious girl who arrogantly knew she was already the best dancer in Wichita and had every confidence of being accepted as part of the Denishawn troupe. (Had I been Louise’s contemporary and known her as a teen/young woman, she would have both ignored me and scared the hell out of me.) Cora is left feeling belittled by her young charge on several occasions. Louise is a handful; men already turn to look at her on the street; she is a born flirt.

Cora, in trying to control Louise, urges her to keep her virginity, and is stunned when Louise tells her she had lost it at the age of nine to a paedophile called Mr Flowers and since then has had an affair with her Sunday School teacher Mr Vincent.

As Louise has such secrets in her past, so does Cora.

While Louise spends several hours a day at dance class, Cora tries to unravel the truth about her own childhood. As a young girl she lived as an orphan in The New York Home for Friendless Girls before being sent on a ‘adoption train’ west with other children to find new parents.  While the Home still exists, the sisters who run it will not give her access to her own records. She has no idea who her real mother is, and wants desperately to find out, whether the truth is good or bad. The Home’s handyman, Joseph, agrees to help her access her file, and a friendship builds between them, turning into an affair over the course of the summer.

Cora has secrets that she hasn’t told Louise – or anyone except Joseph. She is married to a homosexual, Alan, who wed her to avoid suspicion about his sexuality. She has borne him a set of twins but they have slept in separate bedrooms since the twins were born. Alan is still seeing his lover of many years, Raymond, and an uneasy menage a trois exists between them.

When it’s time for Cora to return to Wichita Joseph and his young daughter Greta return with her. She tells Wichita Joseph is her half-brother, and tells Alan and Raymond the truth. Joseph and Greta move into the house with Alan and Cora, living in subterfuge and living a lie to the outside world. For me, the book gets less interesting and drags a little after Cora leaves Louise in New York. It becomes a family saga.

At this point, Louise Brooks largely disappears from the narrative; this is, after all, Cora’s story. From time to time she reappears: a mention of her films, a mention of gossip about her.

Louise returns to Wichita in the 1940s, broke and gin-soaked, and sets up a dance school which fails within months. The depiction of her, when Cora goes to visit her, is faithful to fact, hard and uncomfortable as it is. It is Cora who gives her a metaphorical kick and tells her to get out of Wichita and seek happiness. Louise, later, sends her a postcard from New York with the word ‘Thanks’ on it.

Cora’s life is a long one; she outlives her husband, her lover and one of her sons. I found the last chapter of the book, after Louise goes back to New York and leaves Wichita for the final time, a little like Barbara Taylor Bradford on speed, with several decades crammed into the chapter. The initial premise of the book – that trip to New York in 1922 – is well-scripted and crackles with the excitement of the jazz age in America’s biggest city. Cora and Louise go head to head and Cora shows determination you initially don’t expect from her; the (imagined) conversations between them both are far superior to the narrative of the years which follow. I would have liked to have seen the book end when Cora and Louise part company in 1922.

Cora witnesses several historical issues (e.g. prohibition, gay rights, racism, birth control) and many historical events, on which she invariably has an opinion, particularly in the part of the book set back in Wichita. In a way this detracts rather than adds to the story as some of these seem a little contrived as a plot device. If I want a history lesson, I’ll read a history book. A successful blend of history and fiction is subtle rather than obvious.

I suspect that Cora’s life was drawn out to the final end so Louise could once again weave into it. Cora learns in 1958 that Louise has drawn a cult following and is the toast of Paris and that she published a book Lulu in Hollywood in 1981. Cora’s own secrets remain secrets forever.

Overall, I enjoyed this well-researched mix of history-meets-fiction but did skip very quickly through the final chapters. Louise Brooks’ character has the sharp wit you expect her to have. Cora is initially an unlikely heroine compared to her glamourous charge but develops strengths and self-awareness of her own capabilities.

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Book Review: The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater

the scorpio racesIf I told you that the most exciting novel I’ve read this year is about man-eating water horses, and is actually written for the young adult market, what would you think?

I loved The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater so much I have read it twice in the space of a month. The first time I raced through it, devouring it, unable to put it down; the second time was a more leisurely read, appreciating the language, the characters, the nuances. I was swept into Stiefvater’s very convincing world of the island of Thisby, somewhere, it seems, off the Atlantic coast of Ireland.

For me the mark of a compelling novel is one that leaves you breathless at the end, believing wholeheartedly in the plot, the characters, the location; while I am reading it, I live in that world. Sometimes it takes me a few days to pick up another novel if one has made such a huge impact on me. The Scorpio Races is one of those books. It doesn’t matter that it was written for the teen market and I was out of my teens more years ago than I like to think about. A good novel is a good novel.

Here’s the official blurb on the novel from Maggie Stiefvater’s website:

“It happens at the start of every November: the Scorpio Races. Riders attempt to keep hold of their water horses long enough to make it to the finish line. Some riders live. Others die.

At age nineteen, Sean Kendrick is the returning champion. He is a young man of few words, and if he has any fears, he keeps them buried deep, where no one else can see them.

Puck Connolly is different. She never meant to ride in the Scorpio Races. She is in no way prepared for what is going to happen.”

Both Sean and Puck  – well-developed, finely-drawn characters – tell the story in the first person, in alternating chapters. This works superbly as I don’t think the book would be as engaging if it was in the third person or simply with one narrator and one point of view.

Thisby as a place is believable. Windswept, stormy, isolated, and the chosen land for the capaille uisce, the water horses, to emerge from the surf in October. Leading up to the Races there is a festival which Stiefvater makes more realistic with the invention of November Cakes, the island’s sweet delicacy. They don’t exist in the culinary world, but Stiefvater kindly provides the recipe for her creation at the end of the book. I sense some inbreeding in some of the characters, and Puck makes an observation that the eyes of the tourists are much closer together than those of the island people. It all adds to the reality of the world Stiefvater has created.

The capaille uisce themselves are drawn from legend and mythology. Stiefvater’s animals look like normal horses, but prefer a bucket of blood to a bucket of grain.  (It’s a lovely touch when Stiefvater talks about the pong of the water horses’ manure. Imagine a dog turd the size of a horse dropping-!) They are responsible for death and violence; they kill men for food, they are apt to view normal horses as a meal rather than a mate. There is savagery in their portrayal, but Thisby is such a place that Puck and Sean speak of the water horses’ behaviour in a matter-of-fact way. These people are island born and bred; they have grown up with death. Having said that, the horses, in their way, are nicer than some of the humans in this book.

This is a book with timelessness – the action could have taken place any time in the last forty or so years. There are no mobile phones, no computers. Few people on the island drive cars. The mainland, which calls a siren song to young adults looking for work or something more exciting, is only accessible by a ferry journey of several hours.

Had this book existed when I was a teenager, I suspect it would have become my favourite – well-thumbed, read over and over again. Pony book lover that I was, this is unlike any pony book I ever read. I’m not sure that it quite makes it into the pony book category, but blurs the categories between horses and fantasy.

My verdict? Bugger the vampire books – read this instead.

(I read this book on Kindle from Amazon).

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Book Review: Heroines on Horseback by Jane Badger

Heroines on HorsebackI fell in love with horses when I was eight, and this led me into a world of adventure, of gymkhanas, show jumping, champion horses and rogues, nasty rivals, girls who were given ponies, girls who lost ponies,  and most of all dozens of beautiful ponies and horses. Yes, I had  discovered pony books – in particular,  pony books from the post-WWII era.  I loved them. I still do, I’m not ashamed to say, and have retained most of my childhood collection and even *blush* added to it from time to time when a title by a favourite author has become available. I’m a big, horse-loving kid at heart.

So I was delighted to get my hands on the new release Heroines on Horseback – The Pony Book in Children’s Fiction, by Jane Badger. It’s a MUST for anyone who read pony books as a child.

Jane Badger lives in the UK, and is the world’s leading expert on this genre of fiction. She blogs about pony books, she reviews them, she sells them – find out more here.  If all you remember about pony books is the Pullein-Thompson sisters or Monica Edwards you may be stunned to know there are more than 700 authors referenced on Jane’s site, and thousands of books from the superb to the indifferent.

Heroines on Horseback looks at the evolution of horsy fiction for children from the days of Black Beauty (tissues, anyone? Just the mere thought brings a tear) through to modern series such as The Saddle Club with its soap-opera cliffhangers and standalone books such as the excellent and dark The Scorpio Races (I’ll be reviewing that soon too!), and touches on the horrible reality that these days pony books have pink sparkly covers that may belie the fact that what’s inside is worth reading. At the book’s heart is the period from the 1940s to the 1970s when the British pony book was at its height, selling a middle-class rural idyll fantasy to its pony-mad readers.

Jane is an objective and analytical writer. She reviews both authors and illustrators in this book. I’ll touch on illustrators first as illustrations can add to or detract from a pony book. Grab a copy of a pony book produced up until the 1960s and you’ll probably find it studded with illustrations. As a test, see if the horses in those illustrations match the horses described in the book itself!  Jane tells which ones don’t… you do wonder if the illustrators bothered to read the book they were illustrating very closely.

Older pony books were blessed with artists such as Lionel Edwards contributing beautiful artwork. Anne Bullen’s delicate ponies with their elegant dished faces graced several of the books on my shelves and I used to try and copy her style in my own teen drawings. Mary Gernat’s flowing lines were more timeless; you can look at them today and not date them to the 1950s and 1960s. What a joy to see so many illustrations from pony books reproduced throughout Heroines on Horseback!

Now Jane doesn’t review all 700 authors in this book!  She does, however, review the work, the style and the plots of some of the more popular including:

  • Josephine, Christine and Diana Pullein-Thompson, the prolific trio of sisters whose styles were quite individual in terms of language, characters and story style itself. Josephine more or less taught me how to ride by proxy before I even sat on a horse at age 11! I had read so many of her books I clambered aboard muttering “heels down, toes up, hold the reins in a bridge etc etc”. She was the most educational of the three, particularly with her Noel and Henry series in which the characters train their own horses.
  • Monica Edwards, with her well-drawn families and their horses in the Punchbowl Farm and Romney Marsh series. I confess to not having read much Monica Edwards; I suspect the school library didn’t have any when I was young, or I hadn’t found them if so.
  • Ruby Ferguson’s Jill books, written in the first person with a wicked flash of humour. You can’t help but like Jill with her all-absorbing love for her pony Black Boy, her best friend Susan and her nemesis cousin Cecilia.  Jill ages through the series and when she is finally offered a job with horses settles for the secretarial college and horses as a hobby, much to the disgust and disappointment of Jill’s readers.
  • Mary Gervaise and her G for Georgia series. I loved this series as a child as Georgia is not your typical horsey heroine. She’s frightened of horses and through the series gains confidence in herself as a person as well as a rider. Horses aren’t all-encompassing in this series; there’s not a gymkhana in every book and the stories are as much about Georgia’s relationships with her friends and family as with her pony Spot.
  • Judith Berrisford’s Jackie series, another I haven’t read for forty years and according to Jane I’m not missing a great deal if I don’t re-read them. Re-use of plots if not actual pages of text with the Berrisford books is not unusual! Jane Badger describes them as comfort reading. All I can remember is Jackie and her pal Babs getting into all kinds of strife.
  • Gillian Baxter, one of my personal favourites, who wrote her first first novel Horses and Heather when she was fifteen. My favourite Baxter books, the Bracken House trilogy, are about Roberta (Bobby) Morton and her chestnut mare, Shelta. There’s a hint of romance in a couple of her books as they are aimed at a slightly older teen audience (12-16 year olds). Romance in pony books was often frowned upon by the publishers (they took a dim view of Josephine Pullein-Thompson’s Pony Club Camp when it was clear Noel and Henry fancied each other. Noel is female, by the way).
  • K M Peyton, whose Flambards books I adored and still do, even though they are not strictly ‘pony books’. Fly-By-Night and Sweet Rock however, are, but in typical Peyton style it’s not all warm and fuzzy happy families.  Her 1999 book Blind Beauty skims on the edge of pony bookness, being set in the racing world, but it’s a delight. And a tearjerker. You have been warned.
  • Patricia Leitch – including her Jinny series, written in the 1970s and providing readers at the time with a modern pony book and a modern family to which to relate. Heroine Jinny gradually tames and trains the ill-treated and wild mare Shantih throughout the series; I loved the interaction between Jinny and her friends and family, her mistakes, her hot-headedness and goodheartedness as much as her struggle to understand Shantih and her need for the mare to love her back.
  • Monica Dickens and her Follyfoot series. I have left my absolute favourite until last! These are not typical pony books; the first in the series, Cobbler’s Dream, was written for an adult audience in 1963 to highlight the cruelty horses suffer at the hands of man; and to raise awareness of the life – or otherwise – a working horse can expect after retirement. Cobbler’s Dream was the basis for the popular Yorkshire TV series Follyfoot, on which subsequent books in the series were based. The Follyfoot books aren’t as violent as Cobbler’s Dream; they are written for children and young adults but not dumbed down; they still feature horses who have been mistreated, and never does Dickens preach or talk down to her audience. Her characters are believable, her humour wry, her understanding of horses beautifully captured in these books.

That’s just the tip of the iceberg. Dozens of authors are discussed including a few who aren’t British, among them Mary O’Hara, Marguerite Henry and Elyne Mitchell.

So what happened to the golden reign (or indeed rein) of the pony book? Through the 1970s and certainly by the 1980s pony books were regarded as elitist. How many families could afford to buy their child a pony and cover the ongoing expenses? Pony books from the post WWII era were typically about middle class families who lived in the country or moved to the country, and often the didn’t have very much money (this is all relative… not having much money often meant for some fictional families they only had one housemaid, or a daily cleaner). Times had changed. Girls still loved horses but the world of the 1950s and 1960s books was one a million miles away and no longer relevant. (And pony books were usually read by girls; there were occasional boys as lead characters but pony books traditionally had girls as their stars.)

The pony book has evolved from its golden heyday (hay day… can’t resist another pun!).  There are still some good books being written, but pony or horse books now have to compete with vampires, fantasy and being saddled (oops! Sorry.) with pink sparkly covers.

If you remember the pony books of your childhood, buy this book. It’s a must. It’s the definitive reference guide and will make you look on some of the books you read as a child and vaguely remember with more knowing adult eyes.  It may make you want to start collecting pony books all over again, chasing down that elusive out-of-print book to make up the final book in a series.

Jane will ship this book anywhere in the world – I’m in Australia and mine arrived within five days, and was read cover to cover in one more!

Finally, if you are after reprints of vintage books, Heroines on Horseback is beautifully published by Girls Gone By Publishers, who are reproducing some classic girls’ fiction from the golden age including Monica Edwards’ books.

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